Riptide
by whiskets
Summary: Constantine calls. Grace comes. That's how it works, usually. But when Grace gets hurt working for Constantine, who will save her? As dynamics change, how will this effect the relationships in the mob family? And how does Ro play into all this? Post 1x03: To Serve and Protect-Spoilers Rated T
1. Chapter 1

**Riptide**

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****Pairing: Same as show

Spoilers: Post 1x03 To Serve and Protect (good episode, right?)

Disclaimer: Not mine. Good job, Fox.

Rating: T/Pg-13. Some blood, gore (it is a mob/doctor show), language.

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****A/N: Just started watching "Mob Doctor" and am so beyond intrigued. So...when I should've been working on other projects, I typed out this little thing. There will be chapters, I just want to get more of "No Sunlight" out of my system before I return to this.

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In retrospect, she mused, she should've known something like this would happen. Bad things tended to happen to bad people, and she worked with the worst. It was strange. There should've been more pain. There was certainly enough blood. Part of her registered that that was a bad thing: someone was bleeding out. _Me_, she reminded herself. The human body was a wonderful thing, she thought, as she closed her eyes. It was keeping her from feeling the wounds the bullets had created as they tore through her slender form. As she sank to the ground, she barely felt the impact with the asphalt. There was yelling. Why was there yelling? Someone shook her and she opened her eyes to look up into Nate's eyes, filled with fear.

"Grace!" Her name filled her ears. "No! C'mon, sis…" he muttered as she closed her eyes again. She had been sucked in, pulled into the mob lifestyle, first by her father, then by her brother and lastly, by herself. The mob was a riptide and she had just become one of its many victims.

It was routine. It was normal. One of Constantine's underlings had gotten injured and he had called Dr. Grace Devlin. Franco had made arrangements with Grace to meet him, a few enforcers and the patient in an abandoned airplane hanger. The airport, if one could call it that, was tiny, and really only had a use when Joseph Moretti, and later, Constantine, had need of it.

* * *

Grace sighed as she drove her silver Jeep onto the small airplane runway. Another life, and this might've been fun: able to cruise a runway as quickly as possible, achieving speeds that would've caused an accident or earned her a speeding ticket certainly. As it was, she was here for a different purpose, as she tried to constantly repay the debt she owed Constantine. There were only a few hangers out here, their shiny metal siding reflecting the sun, winking at her from the darkness. Luckily, she had just finished her shift, so there were no made up excuses she had to concoct to cover her absence from the hospital. She had really wanted to get into bed and sleep, but that would have to wait.

She mentally double-checked the number on the hanger with the one Franco had given her, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. She frowned as she waited one minute, two, and still the doors remained closed. Growing impatient, she honked. The doors didn't open. Rolling her eyes, Grace punched the seat belt release and got out, leaving the Jeep's door open. She intended to pound on the doors until Franco got the message, if she wasn't able to open them herself.

Grace had bothered to half-change. She wore comfortable dark jeans, the pink and gray Nikes she favored when on shift, and her dark blue scrub top. Despite the strong wind flattening her clothes to her body, it was a warm day and the sunlight radiated from the asphalt in waves. She resisted the urge to stomp as she made her way over to the doors, covering the short distance between the doors and her Jeep in a few long strides. She could hear the sounds of yelling, and smirked slightly. Maybe the situation wasn't as under control as they normally were? She shook her head, letting the smirk fade away. Constantine wouldn't like that, nor would he stand for it. Sure enough, she heard his voice, barely raised, telling the yeller to relax. She held her hand flat and pounded on the door. She did it quickly, and loudly, to keep the warm metal from burning her. That'd be all she needed. The voices cut out. A few moments passed in silence then the screech of metal that protested its opening and a portion of Franco's face filled a crack. She saw the way his eyes squinted as he smiled at her.

"It's just Grace," he called over his shoulder. His hands filled the space where his face had been and he pulled the door open a few more inches.

"Sorry," he called to her. "The pulley system's broken on this side. Hold on," he commanded. All of him disappeared and then she heard the sounds of grunting, the clink of a chain, and the groaning of metal as the opposite door was opened.

"Get your Jeep," Franco ordered her. She raised an eyebrow at his tone and he offered her a slight smile. She knew it was important for him to maintain at least the appearance of superiority over her in front of the others. She shook her head and turned on her heel, a ghost of a smile gracing her features.

* * *

Grace saw the car racing towards them. It was black, a newer model of Chrysler's 500, and it was heading straight for her Jeep. It wasn't alone, she had time to register, before her eyes widened and she found herself sliding across the hood of her Jeep, Duke boys style, to avoid getting crushed by the 500. Her Jeep did a good job of protecting her as she landed by the passenger side. The screech and crunch of metal met her ears as the 500 impacted at an angle with the Jeep. She was already back on her feet and moving as the Jeep's mangled body swung towards her, the impact of the crash spinning it. It missed her by inches. Grace pushed off the ground and sprinted, using her natural athletic prowess to seek shelter inside the hanger where she knew men with guns would be. She heard the other car's engine roaring. The noise barely made an impact; the sound of her heartbeat already filled her ears.

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Logan was already working on shutting the door. Constantine yelled at him to leave the door open for Grace. It was amazing, Franco had time to think, of how the man could adapt to situations. Franco pulled his gun, a Glock 45, and aimed it out of the other opening, trying to get a clear shot as he watched Grace sprint towards the hanger.

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Time seemed to slow down. Later, Grace would think about adrenaline and how it effected the body. Now, all she could do was gasp for oxygen as she pushed herself to get to safety. She heard the impossibly loud crack of guns being fired and sincerely hoped it was Franco or one of Constantine's other men. The first slug hit her in the back. The impact punched into her, but it wasn't like the movies. She wasn't thrown to the ground. It just _hurt._ She twisted around, wanting to see the person who was shooting her. This bullet embedded itself into her left shoulder with a bite that made her entire arm go numb. More loud explosions as someone returned fire. She had gone deaf to the world; her ears heard the sound of the blood pumping in her body as she threw herself into the hanger.

Grace looked around and found Constantine's face. It peered at her from behind the engine block of a dark SUV. He gestured to her to get over there, beside him. When he yelled, he didn't make a sound. She smiled slightly and took a faltering step towards him. The men were still firing and didn't see her go down. She remembered falling to her knees. Was Nate here? Probably. She prayed quickly, as she sank to the asphalt, that God would keep him safe because it was looking like she was no longer going to be able to. With that last sad thought, she closed her eyes as her brother broke cover and ran to her side.

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Constantine's men had fired too accurately. As Franco, Logan and Nate broke cover to move on the vehicles, they could tell that the driver of the first vehicle, the one that had impacted with Grace's Jeep was either dead, or well onto his way. The driver was a skinny white guy, a prison tattoo climbing its way up his neck, despite the cheap, dark suit he wore. It was currently stained with small drops of blood as he slumped over the wheel. There was no passenger. More of Constantine's men emerged and surrounded the first vehicle, holding it.

As one, Nate, Franco and Logan moved to the second vehicle. It had ground to a stop as Logan's Uzi had filled the engine block with lead. As Franco recognized one of the men, his eyes filled with fear. It was one of the other men that still knew Moretti was alive. Recognition filled the eyes of the other man, Petey Wheeler, as he gazed painfully at Franco. Franco opened the door further, noting that the passenger was dead, bleeding out from multiple gunshot wounds.

Franco spit on Petey. Petey's eyes widened and he coughed, blood covering his hand. "Maybe, Petey, ya moron, if you hadn't shot the doctor, she could've saved your life," he growled. Franco reached into the driver's side door and grabbed Petey by the collar.

"Who ordered the hit? Who even knew we were here?" He demanded, shaking Petey.

"Who do you think?" Petey chuckled. "He wants him dead. And her…the doc's just a bonus," he sneered, coughing. Franco put his Glock to Petey's head and pulled the trigger. The gunshot was loud as it filled the car, gray matter spattering the seat. Franco was breathing heavily. Fear from almost getting caught, fear for Gracie, and adrenaline were all taking their toll.

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As Nate watched Franco raise the gun, he tried to stop him. He didn't understand. Who was the man in the hanger? And who had wanted him dead? The doctor that was shot…Nate's eyes widened and he couldn't help it. He broke ranks and ran back into the hanger. Constantine was frozen, starring down at Grace's form. Blood covered the asphalt in drips and then in a lake around her still body. Nate's guts twisted, his heart stopped, and he picked her up, shaking her, hoping against reality that she would open her eyes.

Constantine was at his shoulder. "What do we do, Nate?" he asked sorrowful.

It was a test, maybe. Nate didn't care. It was his fault Grace was in this mess, no matter what he might tell himself, no matter what she had told herself. "Get Ro. She'll help and she'll keep her mouth shut," he said, holding Grace gently as he watched her eyes close again.

"Okay," Constantine said, leaving the young man alone with his grief and his bleeding sister.

* * *

They returned to the hanger. Franco looked at Constantine. "It was Petey Wheeler and two others I don't recognize," he said. "Petey said 'he wanted him dead' and Grace…Grace was just a bonus."

Constantine looked at the younger man before him. Franco's eyes were full of fear, his features twisted with anger. Constantine's eyes were cold and flat.

"Who, Franco? Who wanted him dead?" A sharp nod of his head, indicating the table, and the dead mobster. He wouldn't've been dead if Grace had gotten to him in time, but…this had happened.

Franco shook his head. "Moretti's dead. He's the biggest fish that would've had an issue with Betrelli. He's the only one I know who had a beef with Gracie." His eyes traveled to where Grace lay, clutched by her brother.

"Oh, God, what about Gracie?" He asked, eyes sorrowful.

Constantine was quiet for a moment, eyes still bottomless pools. "Take Logan and pick up Ro. Do it quietly, no mistakes."

"She needs a hospital," Nate called, his back to the group. His voice was strangled with grief.

Franco closed his eyes, counted to five, as Constantine shook his head. "You know we can't take her, Nate. Go to the hospital and get Ro," he commanded, turning his attention back to his lieutenant. "Tell her what she needs to know to get the right supplies. Tell her…" he hesitated. "Tell her what she needs to know."

* * *

Franco nodded. He gestured and the doors to the hanger were opened. Logan climbed into one of the SUVs and drove quickly.

While they were gone, Constantine's men cleaned up the scene, made arrangements to have the vehicles destroyed and got rid of Betrelli's body. Plates and VIN's, which were found on one of the SUV's, were provided to their police contacts. Grace's Jeep was pulled into a spare hanger, to be disappeared in the middle of the night and replaced with something better…if Grace survived. Otherwise, it would be staged to look like some junkie had gone after the doctor for access to her medical supplies and prescriptions. Constantine had a plan for everything, even the unplanned. And Gracie getting hurt…maybe even dying…had never been planned for.

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A/N: Hope you liked it. Please **REVIEW**! I have some plans for all of our crew here, MWAHAHA!


	2. Chapter 2: Someone to Save You

**Riptide**

Chapter 2: Someone to Save You

Disclaimer: Don't own.

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A/N: When I first wrote this, I decided that if I had even one reviewer, I would continue the story. I had no idea it would be received this well. Thanks, y'all. I'm humbled.

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Franco threw the black Buick into park and Nate leapt out of the passenger side. His blood soaked clothes were stashed under the front seat, wrapped in a plastic bag taken from the airplane hangar. Franco had handed him a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, clothes the mafia kept on hand for emergencies like the one they were experiencing. A towel and the remaining bottle of water Nate had used to wash his hands were in the bag as well. Despite the absence of the sticky fluid, Nate couldn't stop looking at his hands, remembering how pale Grace had looked as he held her. It had taken Franco all but putting a gun to his head for Nate to get up, leaving Grace to Constantine.

Nate slammed the door, hearing the echo of the driver's door shut and he flew into the doctor's entrance to the ER. Franco was on his heels. Nate didn't expect the sudden stop he encountered as Franco grabbed the back of his shirt and slammed him into the wall of the empty hallway. He pinned him there, one hand balled in the front of his shirt, the other on his shoulder.

"Nate, breathe! We can't run in there and just grab Ro! We have to come up with a plan," he reminded the younger man.

Nate stared at him, at first, not hearing his words. Slowly, they broke through and he nodded. "Yeah…you're right. Let me do the talking," he said, running a shaking hand through his hair.

"If you're sure you've got it…" Franco said uncertainly, letting go of him. Nate straightened his shirt and turned back to the hallway. His steps this time were measured, careful, instead of frantic.

As they made their way into the ER's waiting room, Franco scanned the area, noting the various patients, all ages and genders, seated in the hard plastic furniture, unappealing magazines scattered on tables beside them. His eyes flew to the center desk, clearly the nervous system of the ER. He couldn't stop the small smile that covered his lips as he saw that Ro was manning the desk. She looked up, suddenly, as if feeling the weight of his gaze on her and their eyes met. She frowned, concern pulling her features tight, as she looked first from him and then to Nate. Her eyes widened then, fear making her pale. She skirted the desk and met them halfway across the room.

"What is it?" Ro asked, glancing from Franco's grave face to Nate's, which had gone ashen. "What's wrong? Nate?" she questioned the young man, hoping, praying that the seriousness they were both projecting had nothing to do with Grace. Her fears were confirmed; her hopes dashed a few moments later, when Nate spoke.

"I…I can't explain it," Nate began, "But I need you to come with me right now, Ro," his eyes were at his feet, fear creeping across his handsome features.

Ro looked again between the two men, searching them for a sign, a clue as to what was going on. "Where's Grace?" she asked unexpectedly. Nate started and Franco swallowed hard, the sound loud between them.

"Grace is…unavailable. We need you," Franco stepped in, grasping her hand, his dark eyes filled with sincerity.

Nate glanced between Ro and Franco. Why couldn't they just tell her the truth? She would certainly help Grace. She was her best friend.

Ro's face became unreadable, her lips pressed into a thin line as she read something on Franco's face. She nodded once, sharply.

"What do I need to get?" she asked succinctly.

"Things you would need to help with gunshot wounds," Franco replied. Nate's fists clenched, the only sign that he was close to losing it. Ro's eyes widened as she turned on her heel. She made a beeline for the supply closet, thinking quickly. She wasn't a doctor but she had assisted with enough surgies, supervised the patient's recovery. Plus, she had been around Grace, saw the blonde play McGuyver. She would make it work. She gathered the supplies quickly, realizing she would have to come up with an excuse as to why she had to leave in the middle of the day. A family emergency would have to work. After all, wasn't Grace family? Because Franco's careful manner of speaking had left no doubt in her mind: Grace was in serious trouble.

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"Get her in the car," Constantine's voice barked the orders, followed quickly by movement. He had had to get Nate out of the way first. The young man's face was the epitome of fear. He had held onto Grace, not wanting to let her go, as the blood continued to pool around the blonde. She would bleed out, die, simply because Nate was in shock.

Constantine's face was an unreadable mask. He kept the fear out of his eyes as he looked at Grace's still body. One of his men, Mikey, bent down low and scooped the blonde up, jostling her. Fortunately, she had sunk into unconsciousness minutes before, and wasn't really aware of the pain she was in. She moaned but was quiet otherwise. Constantine gave the man a look, shooting daggers at him, and Mikey paled and muttered, "sorry," though, of course, Grace was in no shape to hear him. Constantine nodded once, accepting the man's hasty apology as another man, Johnny, held the car door open. Mikey slid Grace's body into the backseat, the leather squeaking as her weight settled in it. The car peeled out of the hangar a few moments later, headed for Constantine's house.

As the sedan faded into the distance on the runway, Constantine found himself doing something he hadn't done in a long time: he prayed. He prayed that Ro would get to her in time and that Grace wouldn't pay for his mistakes. He prayed that he would be able to forgive himself if Grace died.

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The trio had piled into the Buick, Ro peppering the two men with questions.

"What happened to Grace?" she asked without preamble. Franco looked at her in the mirror. Her face was pale but her eyes were determined.

"She got shot, at least twice," he replied, just as bluntly. He saw her eyes narrow and then she reached around the passenger seat and punched Nate's arm.

"What did you get her into this time, huh?" she demanded from him, her eyes dark with fury. "She didn't start getting into this shit until _you_," she accused, her voice angry. She hit him again.

"HEY! Hey!" Franco yelled. "Ro, we don't have time for this, right now! Right now, I need you to think, to put your skills into play. It will only be a few more minutes now," he said, running a traffic light. "Then, you'll have to go to work on Grace. She needs your mind to be clear."

Ro was breathing heavily. Slowly, so slowly, the anger began to leave her features, traces of fear taking the emotion's place. That, too, faded, leaving only determination. "All right," she said slowly. "Tell me what happened."

Nate was quiet, staring at his hands, as he had on their way to the hospital. He was worthless right now, no good to any of them.

Franco returned his gaze to the road in front of them, and began the story.

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A/N: I feel that I must apologize. Usually, what I do is write several chapters out before posting a new story. In Riptide, this was not the case, so updates will happen less frequently than with my other stories. That being said, I am hoping to get quite a bit done post-Christmas and I am nearing the end of one of my other multi-chapter stories, so I should be able to dedicate my creative writing time to Riptide only. I do promise the next chapter will be more action packed, provided the muses and the characters agree. Thanks, everyone, for hanging in there with me. The favorites, follows and reviews mean a lot to me.


	3. Chapter 3: One of Us

**Riptide**

Chapter 3: One of Us

Disclaimer: Don't own.

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A/N: Thanks to the wretched flu I got over Christmas, and the time it took me to recover, I got zero writing done. This chapter was written quickly and not as proofread as I would've liked, but it seemed more important to post it for my amazing reviewers and followers.

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The crew of men at Constantine's house were on the alert, looking for the vehicle Franco drove, as well as any unfamiliar ones. They were on the look out for retaliation, as well as the Buick. Mickey pulled a heavy curtain back, peering through the window, his eyes on the black metal gate, scanning along the road in front of the mansion.

Another man used technology to sweep the grounds, housed in a smaller upstairs bedroom. He had the cameras set up to pan throughout the area but kept them off of a pattern, instead, allowing the software to randomize their movements. His eyes flicked to the monitor that showed the wrought iron gate and the road that led up to it. His eyes widened as he saw the black Buick tearing towards the gate. He zoomed in, saw Franco at the wheel of the car, and radioed to the men in the mansion.

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They barely had time to activate the gate as Franco drove through, the metal on the vehicle's sides screaming in protest as it scrapped against the gate, sparks flying on both sides. Franco ignored the sound and punched the accelerator, throwing gravel along the driveway, into the grass. He hit the brake with his foot hard, leaving skid marks. Ro barreled out of the backseat, not waiting for the car to come to a complete stop, the medical bag in her left hand. She left the car door open, her eyes fixed on the front door of the white mansion before her as she raced towards it. She stretched out her hand to push the door open but it opened before her fingertips touched the knob. A tall man in a dark suit held the door open, gave her a quick once-over, and then pointed from the entranceway, where he stood, down the hall.

"She's in the bedroom on the left," he said gruffly. Ro nodded once, a sharp movement of her dark head and increased her stride. She paused at the closed bedroom door, steeling herself. She had no idea what condition Grace was in; she only knew her best friend wasn't dead yet. Again, before she could open the door, it was opened for her.

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Constantine looked at Ro. He thought she looked young, noting the smile lines that had begun to crease her face. Then, he looked into her eyes and saw the determination present there, and knew that if anyone would work to save his Gracie, it would be the brunette in front of him. He finished his silent appraisal and held the door open for her to enter.

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Time seemed to slow down as Ro's eyes surveyed the scene in the bedroom. It was a large room, probably not the master bedroom, but certainly bigger than hers. The walls were painted a soft, sunny yellow. Small pieces of antique furniture dotted the room, allowing it to remain uncluttered. Pictures reflecting the mansion owner's taste were hung on the walls. Ro didn't take the time to figure out what each image was. Her eyes were caught and stayed with the pale figure on the queen-size four poster bed. Someone had thrown the comforter away from the bed and Grace lay unconscious on lavender sheets. Two people, a man and a woman, hovered over her, applying pressure to the wounds, trying to stem the bleeding. Unfortunately, they weren't doing a very good job, Ro noted clinically, seeing the dark black splotches that covered the bed.

Her brain clicked over automatically. This wasn't Grace, this was simply another patient who needed her help. She needed to be analytical, not emotional, and she felt the compartmentalization happen automatically.

"Bathroom," she said, dragging her eyes from the scene on the bed. Constantine hiked his thumb over his right shoulder, indicating a door Ro hadn't noticed before, behind him. Wordlessly, she handed him her medical bag and began to scrub in.

Ro finished the sterilization process and talked the woman, Anne, through the process. Anne was very calm, a pillar of emotional stability in a masculine environment that hummed with barely suppressed rage. She was an older woman, probably in her late fifties, with shoulder length blonde hair, streaked with gray. She was petite, but her delicate features belayed a quiet strength that Ro recognized. Her face was lined, but not unhappy. She carried herself as though she had been through a lot, had seen more than she probably should have, and had to decided to be happy with her lot in life.

Anne wore a blood-stained top that Ro had her trade for a spare scrub top she had pitched into the medical bag. Fortunately, both women wore roughly the same size gloves so that was not an issue either. Ro worried that Anne would be squeamish and then re-thought that as she considered what employ for Constantine would probably entail.

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Ro was going to have no choice but to put Grace in various stages of undress in order to deal with each wound, and she didn't want these men, these _strangers,_ to see the blonde like that. The men had exited the room at her command and Ro turned to face her best friend. She and Anne rolled the doctor over and Ro cut through the fabric of Grace's shirt and a portion of the blood-soaked jeans Grace wore. She began to clean and examine the wound, clenching her jaw as she realized that the bullet had been a through-and-through, exiting somewhere in Grace's abdomen. It was a catch 22. She didn't have to dig for the bullet, but there was also no telling, at this point, what the extent of the damage was internally.

* * *

Anne watched the dark haired woman work. She knew that the woman wasn't a doctor, but guessed, based on her adept work, that she was in the medical field, probably a nurse. She had worked for Constantine for a long, long time and had been in the world almost as long. She had seen many different things in the mobster's employ, and while he was honorable, in his own way, she had never seen him care for another woman this way. It was different than the way he treated his lovers. It was almost like he viewed the blonde doctor as a daughter…

Anne dragged her mind from that dangerous line of thought and pulled her attention to the here-and-now as the brunette, Ro, asked for a piece of gauze. They were finished with the entry wound on the doctor's back and had already started her on a blood transfusion to counteract the bleeding. The stitches, dark against the blonde's pale skin, were covered with medical tape and a piece of gauze. The women worked together to carefully turn Grace over. Anne heard Ro sigh as the brunette contemplated the exit wound.

* * *

Ro probed the wound carefully, glad she had already doped Grace up, as this type of injury made her want to cringe in sympathy. She allowed herself a small smile under the surgical mask she wore as she determined that no vital organs had been punctured, no small miracle in itself. She stitched the wound closed, the needle flashing silver in the light as she pulled the skin together. She turned her attention to the blonde's shoulder. This wound, thankfully, was the easiest of the three. She dug carefully with the tweezers, and found the bullet intact against the humerus. It made a resounding clang as she dropped it onto the bedside table. For a moment, her gaze was locked on the small piece of metal, her eyes narrowed but unfocused. She couldn't stop the thought that went through her mind, about how that could've ended Grace's life. She broke free and finished stitching up the shoulder, covering it with gauze and medical tape, to match Grace's front and back. Finished, she took a step back from the bedside, and she shook her head. Too fragile. They were all too fragile for this life.

Ro peeled off her gloves and threw them into the dustbin Anne offered to her. She ripped off the surgical mask, taking a deep breath. Now she could allow herself to be emotional. She turned away from the other woman and took a few lurching steps into the bathroom. She barely made it to the toilet before she lost the sandwich she had eaten for lunch, the fear twisting her insides. She would have to watch for fever, and Grace would need another transfusion, but, for now, the blonde was out of the woods. Her best friend was temporarily safe.

* * *

Anne heard the young brunette retch and closed her ears to the sound. She turned away from the bedside and opened the linen closet. She retrieved fresh linens in colors of dark blue, wishing passively that darker colored sheets had been on the guest bedroom when the men had brought the mob doctor in. She might've been able to save the lavender bedding. She also knew that she needed to grab some loose fitting clothing. While no one would attempt anything to the blonde, she still knew what it was like to be in a compromising position in a house full of men. Grace would most likely not be in any shape to move around for the next few days, leaving her vulnerable. Clothing, and the presence of the brunette, would help lessen that feeling.

* * *

Ro swished water around in her mouth, spat in the sink, and wiped her face with the fluffy towel hanging on the wall. She sighed and steeled herself again as she returned to the bedroom. The smell of blood still hung heavy in the air. The thick copper scent filled her mouth and she felt the bile rise again. She swallowed hard, suppressing the urge to be sick and returned her attention to Grace.

Ro worked with Anne to move the still-unconscious Grace so that they could change the twin bed's sheets. Blood had soaked into the mattress but there was nothing they could do about that. The women threw the sheets onto the bed and then lifted the blonde back onto the bed. Ro dug through her medical bag and retrieved a pair of scrub pants and a white t-shirt. The pants would be short on the taller woman but the elastic would provide some relief from compression against the wounds on her back and abdomen. They got the doctor changed and then settled her still form on the mattress. Ro changed the blood bag, watching as the dark liquid traveled through the tube into Grace's arm. Wordlessly, Anne left the room, returning a few minutes later with a chair. She sat it beside Grace's bedside. She offered the brunette a small smile before leaving the room, closing the door quietly.

Ro took Grace's hand and held it. Her friend's eyes were clenched shut tightly. The drugs were wearing off and it was clear, from her pale face, and the pain that marred it, that Grace was feeling her injuries, even in her current state of unconsciousness. Ro's own face was sad as she considered what Nate had put Grace through and what Franco had told her in the car. She couldn't help the selfish thought she had next: now that she was a part of their world, what was going to happen to her?

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Please **Review! **Thanks, y'all!


	4. Chapter 4:White Blank Pages

**Riptide**

Chapter 4: White Blank Page

Disclaimer: Not it…not mine.

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Grace was floating. She tried to open her eyes but found that she couldn't. She felt like a marionette doll that had its strings cut. She formed the commands but there was a disconnect somewhere, between her brain and her body, and it refused to do the simple task of opening her eyes. So she listened to her surroundings and fought the murky clouds that weighed her down, slowing her thoughts, making her feel stupid and clumsy.

On the edge of the clouds, amidst the fog, was a white-hot knife of pain. The tightness in her gut and in her back triggered something…loud noises like firecrackers but…she knew that wasn't quite right. If only she could think…

* * *

Grace stirred, a slight movement of the hand that was still grasped in Ro's and the brunette looked at the doctor, watching her face, hoping she was about to wake. Ro had been hunched forward, the chair as close to the bed as she could make it, without actually being _on_ the bed. Her left hand held Grace's right. Ro was certain that her best friend could feel the pressure, and if Grace had any plans on going elsewhere, Ro was sure their physical contact could dissuade her. Still, she felt the icy fingers of fear that slid into her gut when Grace moved, moaned quietly, but didn't open her eyes. So, Ro squeezed the blonde's hand, bowed her head, and prayed.

* * *

Constantine was seated behind his behemoth wooden monstrosity known as a desk. His hands were clasped and resting on its smooth surface as he surveyed the men in the room with him. The door to the study was closed, eliminating the probability of eavesdroppers and ensuring that he was quite alone with the company before him.

The mob boss's cool gray eyes fell first on Nate. The young man was seated in one of the high-backed leather chairs. His face was pale and ashen; his eyes angry and fearful. He was walking a tightrope of emotion and Constantine knew it. Something would have to be done for him, before that tightrope snapped, and Nate fell into the turmoil below him.

Franco, Constantine knew, was watching the boss. He had returned from the hospital with Ro and Nate, silent and closed off. Franco stood by the closed door, leaning against a bookcase, trying to appear casual, as if his thoughts weren't on the blood-shot woman in the house. He, too, needed to be watched. There was something about his actions as of late that had begun to concern Constantine. His execution of Petey Wheeler seemed a bit off. Wheeler, judging by his wounds resulting from the car crash, would've died anyway, but Constantine might've been able to get more information out from the man, before he died. If Moretti was behind the hit, as Petey's words had suggested, then that meant that Moretti was still alive…which meant that Franco had lied.

Logan was the only man in the room without a vested interest in Grace. He could provide a cooler head where she was concerned, which was why he was present. That, and Constantine trusted him.

* * *

Constantine zeroed in on Franco.

"Franco, who else wanted Betrelli dead?"

Franco was quiet, considering the questions. "Moretti…" he began slowly. "Would've wanted him dead, but you shot him and I dumped him, so he's out. The Casa brothers had a beef with him, a long time ago…" he shrugged, looking stumped. "As far as I know, they were good. Do we know who shot Betrelli to begin with?"

Constantine shook his head. "No. I called you and Grace about the same time. I was gonna ask him once she had fixed him up."

"Maybe it was someone in Betrelli's organization, trying to take over?" Logan suggested, a frown on his face. "It isn't known to be the most solid."

Franco raised an eyebrow questioningly in Logan's direction. "It isn't? That's the first I've heard of that."

Logan looked a little sheepish. "My old girl…she used to date one of them. Knew a bit too much and didn't know how to keep her mouth shut." His face twisted, eyes darkening. "They helped her learn how." He was quiet for a moment and then shrugged. "She told me some about Betrelli and his crew before she…went away."

"Was it a permanent vacation?" Constantine asked quietly.

Logan sighed. "No. She's still around."

Constantine nodded. "Okay. Make nice with her. See if you can get anything else out of her," he said, his rough voice echoing in the quiet room.

"In the meantime, Franco, go see what you can find out."

He gave a small jerk of his head, dismissing Franco and Logan. Now, just Nate was left in the room. He seemed not to notice. His eyes were fixed on a spot on the Persian rug that dominated the wooden floor.

Constantine stood up heavily and came in front of the desk. He and Nate were only a few inches apart.

"Nate," he said. The younger man didn't move, didn't make any sign he'd heard him.

"Nate," Constantine said again, a little louder this time. Slowly, as if he were moving through jell-o, Nate brought his head up, his dark eyes focusing on Constantine's face. He tried to speak once, opening his mouth, but no words came out. He shook his head, cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah, boss," he said, his voice rough and low. Constantine had been on the verge of giving a very important command and thought better of it. Nate was in no shape…Constantine put a light hand on Nate's shoulder.

"Nate, go be with your sister," he said gently. Nate's eyes were cloudy as he shook his head, standing slowly, complying with Constantine's order. His steps were purposeful and deliberate as if he was afraid that his knees would buckle and his body would suddenly betray him. He reached the door and closed it behind him with a quiet snap.

* * *

Constantine considered the situation he was in. His mob doctor, Grace, had been shot twice and was being worked on by her best friend. Her brother was a wreck, torn apart by fear, worry and guilt. Someone had shot Betrelli and then come after him to finish the job. His only leads were dead men; literally, bodies left behind in unregistered chop shop vehicles. Petey Wheeler had said that they had been after Betrelli but had known enough to know that Grace was important to the organization as a doctor, and so he had shot her, too. Who knew Grace was working for him? Only his men and Grace's family. His thoughts seemed to circle, spiraling until he could only think of one name, one person who would betray him, would fight him for control, who had tried to kill Grace before: Joseph Moretti. But Joseph Moretti was dead…right?

Constantine pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. He spoke quickly and quietly into the device. The voice on the other end of the line gave a reassuring answer. Face carefully neutral, Constantine hung up the phone. He was silent and unmoving, a solemn statue, as he thought about the events of the day as the light faded outside and darkness fell.

In a little while, he would disturb the solitude of Grace's room. He would intrude on the family: Ro, Nate and Grace. For now, Nate needed to be left alone with the two women. He needed to heal, to try to alleviate some of the guilt he felt. If Constantine gave him enough time, Nate would want revenge, and then he would be useful again.

* * *

A/N: All I'm saying is...TAKE THAT COMPUTER ISSUES! I'm baaaack... :) Er, um, please **REVIEW!**


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